


The Moon's Too Bright, the Chain's Too Tight

by thesadchicken



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, F/M, I'm... sorry?, Light Dom/sub, Merry Month of Cohen, No Happy Ending Fest, Smut, just angsty angst and, this is a sad story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24198142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she told him, the very first time. She relented, eventually, on one condition. “Just this—anything more is too great a risk.”Written for Caught the Darkness, the 2020 Leonard Cohen x Star Trek event.
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 28
Kudos: 51
Collections: Caught The Darkness (Star Trek Fandom Event - May 2020)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind this takes place during season 4, after "Hunters", but it can be any time during the show.  
> Inspired by Leonard Cohen's "I'm Your Man".

_If you want a lover  
I'll do anything you ask me to  
And if you want another kind of love  
I'll wear a mask for you_

* * *

She likes it best by starlight. Dark quarters make silent witnesses, and that’s the way she wants it: silent, except when she whispers her passion onto his skin. He never says anything, for fear that he might say too much—he only begs, because it pleases her, because she says he begs so prettily.

She is tender and rough, fair and merciless; generous when the mood takes her, but terribly cruel when the night is young. He yields, he succumbs, he lets himself fall. Such sweet surrender, such exquisite pain, to be hers until he can’t remember being anything else.

Tonight is one of those nights. He comes to her with a report, something he might use as an excuse to provoke her. As he enters her quarters, she looks up from her book. He puts his PADD on the table—duty already discarded—and he answers her questions regarding the ship, the crew. _Everything’s fine, everything’s in order._ He can’t help staring at the way that gray undershirt clings to her body, the rise and fall of her chest. She smiles, arching her back as she stretches, aware of his eyes on her. He came to provoke her, but now he’s the one caught in her snare; he should’ve known better.

“You’ve done a fine job, Commander,” she says, and of course his heart is already pounding; he knows where this is going. She removes the gold pips from her collar, placing them one by one on the table next to his PADD. “But I think that’s enough work for today.”

She thinks it necessary to remind him—to remind _herself_ —of the shift that must occur within and between them. Every time the doors close behind him, she finds a new way to lay emphasis on this. The first few times, she simply held his gaze and searched for words. Now she is no longer that awkward. She slips the reminder into the game, weaves the warning into their secret tapestry so that he can almost forget the implications. Almost.

 _Enough work for today_ , then. He takes an eager step forward; remembers to remove his jacket and undershirt. She watches him undress with growing hunger. He kneels before her, and she stretches again; languid, graceful, tantalizing. He waits for her to reach for him, skin tingling with the absence of her touch. She loves to make him wait, sometimes minutes, sometimes hours.

But tonight her hands are quick to find his body. She sits up straight and slightly forward in the chair, facing him. He is on his knees, looking up at her in anticipation. Her palm is cold on his chest, on his shoulder. The back of her hand brushes against his jaw, then she tilts his chin up. Her thumb runs across his lower lip, and her _eyes_ —her eyes claim him.

“Computer—lights off,” she says, authority ringing in her voice, and although it’s not directed at him he shivers. Command is in her veins, in everything she does. He aches to submit to her.

She stands up and crosses the room. Her silhouette is outlined against the viewport, out of touch. She knows he’s watching; she displays herself, pulling her shirt over her head, unfastening her trousers and bending over to slide them down her legs. She steps out of her clothes, and now the shift is complete. When she looks at him, there is nothing but lust written over her delicate features. Her hair falls just above her naked shoulders. It sways as she nods towards the bedroom. He obeys her silent order.

They float through the doorway but don’t make it to the bed. Somewhere in between they fall into each other’s arms, and their lips meet. The kiss is desperate, urgent, breathless. She finishes undressing him as they stumble towards the bed—she has little patience for the usual obstacles tonight. His back hits the mattress and she falls on top of him, her mouth pressed to his neck. His arousal is hard and heavy between them.

She wraps her fingers around him and sinks down; lower, lower, until he can feel her cool breath on him. He closes his eyes and swallows hard.

“Look at me,” she orders.

Her voice never fails to set his blood on fire. He does as he’s told, his thighs parting for her. He watches her lips close around him and nearly comes undone at the sight. She takes him in, inch by inch, then pulls away all at once. He groans in frustration but resists every urge, denies himself every need. He wants her to push him past the limit, force his body to give in. She takes him into her mouth again and hums in appreciation, her head bobbing up and down. His fingers dig into the sheets and he is already so close, too close. _What are you doing to me, Kathryn…_

She places a tender hand on his thigh, and it’s like the calm before the storm. When she looks up, she is panting, her lips pink and swollen. She climbs back on top of him, straddles him, covers him with her body. He holds onto her hips like a lifeline. She reaches between them and he feels her lining him up, feels the opening to her warmth. She won’t wait any longer, and he’s grateful for the eagerness he reads in her eyes—he needs her _now_.

There are a few seconds of stillness, and the room is filled with their heavy breathing. He wants to taste the moment with her; wishes, more than anything, for her eyes to meet his. But she looks away. It’s this quiet intimacy she fears the most. She will not share it with him, no matter how patient he is. He’s known this from the start; after all, it has always been their agreement. But something in his chest aches all the same. She sees the tension in his shoulders, hears the shuddering breath he takes. In a second it won’t matter.

She lowers herself onto him—slowly, so slowly. His hands tremble on her hips. She sets a pace, but the steady rhythm of her desire quickly dissolves into feverish need. Her head is thrown back in pleasure, her breasts bounce with each powerful shove. She rides him with utter abandon, and there is a wildness to her that overwhelms him. He squeezes the soft flesh of her thighs in warning, but she is too far gone to notice. Her sighs turn into throaty moans as she moves on top of him, and it’s too much, _too close_ , he’s barely holding back, shaking with the effort of it.

The moment he feels her tighten and shudder around him, he lets go. It hits him all at once, and he cries out, jolting with the force of it. His mind keeps spinning long after his body stops trembling. It’s her he thinks of; it’s her, always. He is lost, disoriented for a moment. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes; only now notices the blackness behind his eyelids. He wants to see her.

The corners of her lips curve upwards, only slightly, when he looks up at her. In the throes of passion she is irresistible—but here in the aftermath, tired and content, she is beautiful beyond words. He can’t help it: he reaches up and his fingertips touch her cheek. “Kathryn,” he whispers, tenderness pouring out of him, irrepressible.

Her smile fades. She is reprimanding herself, he can see it in her eyes. _I shouldn’t be doing this_ , she told him, the very first time. She relented, eventually, on one condition. _Just this—anything more is too great a risk_. Her name, soft and warm on his lips, is a risk. His hand on her cheek is more than she can endure.

It only takes an instant for her to pull away, to retreat, to walk out of the room and leave him there without a word. He can hear her gathering her clothes, getting dressed. He listens, knowing she will not stay. She will not allow herself the comfort of her own quarters until he leaves.

Tomorrow he will wake up alone, thinking of her, and they will not mention this. He will come to her again after his shift, with the intention of provoking her; and she will take him again, as if for the first time. As if for the last time.


	2. Chapter 2

_If you want a partner, take my hand, or  
If you want to strike me down in anger  
Here I stand  
I'm your man_

* * *

It’s in her ready room that he finds her, head resting on the back of her hand, over the elegant arc of her wrist. She is looking out into the vastness of space, no doubt thinking of the incalculable distance separating them from home. She doesn’t turn to him when he enters, not right away. It takes her a few seconds to tear her gaze away from the stars. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back.

“How’s Lieutenant Ayari?” she asks.

“Recovering,” he answers, “I visited him in sickbay this morning; he seems to be enjoying his time off, now that he can sleep.”

A fond smile blooms on the captain’s face. “I’m happy to hear that.”

There is silence. It wouldn’t have bothered him before. But things are different now, no matter how hard she tries to pretend they aren’t. The air that was once comfortable between them has grown taut. He waits to be dismissed, but she stands up and walks towards the replicator. “Coffee?”

“Thanks,” he nods.

He finds himself relishing the familiarity of the moment, the ease with which she nods back. He watches her replicate two cups of coffee: black for her, with cream for him. _Two sugars_. There it is, the same ache in his chest. She knows him so well.

“Sit down, Chakotay.”

She orders him differently in here. Not the same tone she uses on the bridge—not the one she uses in bed either. It’s gentle but controlled, careful; as if each word carries a secret. It doesn’t matter. He will always follow her lead.

“I finished reading that book you gave me,” she says as she sits down, tucking one leg under her on the couch.

He takes the cup she offers him. The couch sinks under his weight, and he suddenly feels like an intruder here. As much as he tries to act naturally, he knows that something has changed. He is cautious around her; worried he’ll say the wrong thing or stare for too long. He was never this cautious before. He doesn’t know what to say to her attempts at pleasant conversation. Perhaps she doesn’t feel the change, but he does. And he can’t ignore it.

“Did you like it?” he tries anyway.

His voice sounds distant even to him. She pretends not to notice.

“I’m not sure. Something about the ending confuses me.”

He knows he’s supposed to ask, _what is it that confuses you?_ He knows her answer will be clever and surprising, and that it will charm him to no end, and that he will fall for her again, and again. What makes her think that he can conceal it here, when he couldn’t in the darkness of her quarters? The longer he stays the harder it is to stop his hand from reaching for hers. He’s never been good at hiding these things.

“I’ve been feeling a little confused myself lately...”

She lifts her cup to take a sip. He doesn’t regret what he just said, even though he knows it won’t end well. She knows what he means, he doesn’t have to explain himself.

“I thought we agreed not to have this conversation twice,” she sighs.

“Things have changed,” he insists.

She places her cup on the table and shakes her head. “I knew this was a mistake,” she says, almost to herself.

He can’t tell if she meant it to hurt or not, but it does. He feels the sting of her words like a blow to the face. He should be angry, at the very least he should fight back. But there is no anger in him, only cool determination and white-hot pain. He simply wants to convince her.

“I don’t think it is. I think holding back is the mistake.”

Her expression grows cold. “That’s not what you said three weeks ago.”

There are so many things he can say to that, but none that will change her mind. _I didn’t know how difficult it would be. I was desperate. I wanted you. You’re right, I made a mistake. I thought this would be enough_. _I thought I could make myself believe it was enough_. But it isn’t, it never will be.

He knows that if she hears him say these things she will dismiss him.

So he gives in. Out of wisdom or cowardice, he’s not sure. All he knows is that he will remain silent until he can find the right thing to say. He will take her stinging words, her resentment and her disappointment, and he will say nothing. On the bridge, in the bedroom, between shifts—he will be by her side. And every day he will be sick with longing for her.

Maybe this is what she reads in his eyes when she looks at him. Maybe that’s why she turns away, says she has work to do, _you’re dismissed, Commander_.

~

_If you want a driver, climb inside  
Or if you want to take me for a ride  
You know you can  
I'm your man_

* * *

He tries to stay away, but on his third night alone she invites him to dinner, the way she used to before. It’s only been three weeks since this all started, since she took him to bed for the very first time, but he can barely remember things the way they were before. What he does remember is the laughter, the lingering looks, her affection given so freely and without a second thought. Now every move is calculated, every glance premeditated. It’s like walking a tightrope.

Her quarters are already dark when he shows up for dinner. She makes her usual joke about the replicator, pours him wine and even takes off her jacket. He lets himself be fooled, joins her in this state of stubborn denial. The pretense of normality is so alluring.

She seems pleased. Perhaps she manages to convince herself that all is well, that they can still be friends. He doesn’t want to take that away from her. He watches her smile at him, comfortable once again, and for an impossible moment he thinks she might be right. He can do this. He can keep his thoughts behind his eyes; spend the night with her and still be her first officer in the morning. Still be her friend—nothing more— _anything more is too great a risk_.

After dinner there is more wine, and more laughter, and he almost forgets that he is no longer allowed to love her. He is reminded later, when she leans in, lifts his combadge off his chest and places it on the table between them.

He loses himself to the pleasure, using it as a distraction, as a way to silence his wounded heart. She takes her time, touching him everywhere except where he wants to be touched the most, teasing herself almost as much as she teases him. He urges her not to be gentle, _please_ , not tonight; he needs to be taken, he needs to give in. It’s the only way he can bear her beautiful eyes on him, her soft skin against his. The feel of her palm striking his cheek is his salvation. Her fingers pulling his hair, then later digging into his back, keep him from sinking into the darkness of his own thoughts.

She lies down and pulls him against her, inside her. He waits for her to guide him, and she does. _Slowly_ , she says, over and over, _slowly, yes, just like that, good boy_. She smiles up at him, and he closes his eyes. He usually shudders at the praise, eager to please her. But tonight he wants to disobey; just to be chastised, just to be punished. Perhaps she feels it in the way he moves, his veiled pleas. She recognizes his urgent need for submission. For a moment he wonders if she’ll ask him to stop, and he almost wishes she would. But she doesn’t, and every time he looks at her, love overpowers him. Ardent, unstoppable.

He wishes he could resent her for it.

She makes him kneel, makes him touch himself for her as she watches. When her hand replaces his he cries out, _so close, I’m so close_. She is as unforgiving as he needs her to be. _Not yet_ , she breathes against his ear. Her other hand is between her own thighs. She pleasures them both at the same time, and her moans are like flames licking his body. When she finally tenses up and stills, it takes all his strength not to follow.

Her name is on his lips, just a whisper—but that’s not what she wants to hear. Her pale fingers are around his throat now, firm but not bruising. Her other hand is exactly where he needs it to be, pumping mercilessly, and it’s so good, so hard to hold back. He begs, _please, please, I need you, more than anything,_ and they both know it’s something else he’s begging for, _please, I can’t take it anymore, Kathryn, I need_ —

And then the world around him fades to a single sensation, the pulsating heat below, as he’s sent careening over the edge. She holds him through it, closer than ever.

Tonight, he’s the one who leaves in a hurry.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ah, the moon's too bright  
The chain's too tight  
The beast won't go to sleep  
I've been running through these promises to you  
That I made and I could not keep  
Ah, but a man never got a woman back  
Not by begging on his knees_

* * *

An away-mission takes her to some deserted planet, and in her absence he has time to think. The days are long on an idle starship. He spends them in her ready room or on the bridge. He stares at the viewscreen until the planet’s continents are burned into his memory.

They remain in orbit for a week, although she is only gone for five days. On the second, he is already restless. In his dreams he looks up at Earth’s moon, and when he wakes he knows that sleep will bring him no rest. He scolds himself—he is too old for this. He walks to her quarters, stops in front of her door. And then he realizes: he doesn’t miss her. It’s not that.

No, yearning is not the cause of his agitation, not this time. Something else stirs beneath his skin, a prickling sensation, all day long. He eats alone in her ready room. He looks at the flowers in the corner; remembers her leaning over them, closing her eyes, inhaling. An idea takes shape in his mind, prompted by hope, by the memory of her hand brushing his over the dinner table. He understands the restlessness now: the old beast coming back to chase him. He never could ignore its vicious call, or accept that some things are better left alone.

When presented with a problem, his need for action cannot be contained. He looks out the viewport at the stars, and he is certain now that waiting for it to solve itself has been driving him mad.

Three days separate him from her. He takes his time, serene now that he has a purpose. He recognizes the quiet determination others have commended him for, sees it in himself and in everything he does. At night he falls into a dreamless sleep. He has taken matters into his own hands: he is comfortable now.

And then she is back. Immediately she wants to see him. He asks her to wait until tonight, invites her to join him for dinner, in his quarters. She raises an eyebrow but accepts. He considers it a small step forward.

She walks in almost timidly. They’ve never done this in his quarters before. He is nervous and excited, like a child. He smiles at her, walks with her to the table. Her eyes fall to the flowers, to the glasses and the wine. For some reason she looks surprised, even though his table isn’t any different from hers. He senses her unease, but pays it no mind. Perhaps she is simply tired.

Foolishly, he tries to recreate the light-heartedness of those very first dinners, before all this started. He asks her about the mission, about her day, and the days before. He reaches for her hand, touches her cheek. He mistakes her coldness for insouciance, and continues, pretending it’s easy, pretending his heart isn’t pounding in his chest. He wants it to work. He wants to convince her that hiding is unnecessary. _Look_ , he wants to say, _it’s possible_.

She is not as enchanted as he thought she would be. Not enough to play along, anyway, and certainly not enough to let herself be swayed. When they finish eating she stands up.

“Thanks for dinner,” she says.

He hears the anger buried beneath her words. He stands up too. He doesn’t know how to let go. “We haven't had dessert.” He tries to sound detached, unflustered.

“It’s late,” her voice carries a clear warning.

“It’s not even twenty hundred hours.”

He knows he’s pushing, but he can’t stop.

She closes her eyes, sighing heavily. “I’m tired.” Her hands move as she speaks, palms shoved down decisively. _That’s that_ , she seems to think.

“That’s alright,” he nods, horrified at his own stubbornness but unable to stop, unable to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth, “You can sleep here, with me.”

They stand in silence for a while—silence, like a living thing between them, all around them. She sits down again, slowly. Her eyes are like ice. “You think I don’t understand.”

He does not sit. He takes a deep breath, lifts his chin. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” she snaps, and the anger she has been trying to conceal flashes in her pupils, “You seem to think it’s easy for me, Chakotay.”

His name, another kind of warning. And now he feels it too, the anger swelling in his chest. The frustration. Suddenly it’s as if she is on the planet once more, unable to hear him. He looks at her, the rise and fall of her shoulders, the set of her jaw. He knows this look, knows what it means. He sees his own stubbornness reflected in those blue eyes.

“Why are you afraid of trying?” he asks, and he is angry, so angry.

“Because this isn’t just about us.” She is almost breathless with rage. “There is so much more at stake.”

There it is, her unrelenting guilt. Sometimes he believes she will never be free of it. He feels himself falter, bowing to the monstrosity that is her remorse—how it riddles her spirit like phaser fire. He wants to reach out and cup her cheek with his hand, pull her into a tight embrace, but she will not allow it. So instead he leans in, looking at her with all the certainty he feels.

“I think you’re wrong. I think we can do this. I _know_ we can do this.”

 _This_ , he says, as if it’s something tangible, here in the room with them. He knows it can work. They can make it work. They’ve worked miracles before.

Her expression shifts then, from disbelieving rage to heartbroken acceptance. It takes him entirely by surprise, the way her body goes still, how calm she is when she says: “You won’t change your mind, no matter what I say.” It isn’t a question.

He can’t deny it. No, he won’t change his mind, no matter what she says. He will always believe that they were made to be together. That they can make it work, because he loves her, he loves her so much it’s tearing him apart. He says nothing.

She sighs. “You promised.” Her mouth wobbles, for only an instant, like she might cry. The reproach in her voice almost breaks him.

He hears himself making that promise a few weeks ago, head swimming with the sight of her, the scent of her, when she kissed him that very first time. _Only this_ , he nodded. _Nothing more_. But there is so much more. He couldn’t keep that promise. He still can’t.

“I thought we could still be friends.” She is hurt, so clearly hurt by his betrayal. “That was the… agreement.” The last word comes out in a mirthless laugh. It is so unlike her that he flinches.

Regret floods his mind, bitter with words he wishes he could take back. He is losing her. She does not look at him anymore, does not wait for him to speak. She knows he won’t: he doesn’t know what to say. She stands up, this time with purpose, with resolve. She won’t let him see the rest of her pain.

He remembers himself on his knees, begging, begging without shame. He remembers her hand tilting his chin up, the warmth of her smile. He imagines himself kneeling now, fully clothed, here in his brightly lit quarters. _Please, Kathryn, don’t leave me, please_. But no amount of begging will bring her back. He is losing her; his lover, his friend. He is losing her twice.

She is at the door. She turns to look at him. He understands, too late of course, that he made her choose between him and Voyager. Between him and getting this crew back home. And even if she has to make that choice a thousand times, it will always be the same. He can only love and hate her more for it.

“Goodnight, Commander,” she whispers.

The doors close behind her and he stares at the empty space where she was standing. What she doesn’t know is that he will remain hers, wholly, even after this—and until the day he dies. She may never look at him again, she may even forget his existence, but to him nothing will ever change.

He will love her in silence, until silence is all he is.


End file.
